


The Giving Man

by NateintheAttic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateintheAttic/pseuds/NateintheAttic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, there was a giving man...and he loved an extraordinary man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Giving Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt from the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: _John is the Giving Tree._

Once, there was a man.

His name was John.

When asked to describe him, people would say things like 'doctor', 'ex-soldier', 'steady' or 'quiet'. No one had every described him as 'giving', as it was the lot of true givers never to be recognized as such.

Once, there was a man...

And he loved another man.

His name was Sherlock.

When asked to describe _him_ , people would say things like 'freak' or 'prat', often followed by 'if I see him again I'm going to butcher him' or 'piss off'. Only one person had ever described him as 'extraordinary', as it was the lot of true extraordinary men to be wholly unappreciated.

Once, there was a giving man...

And he loved an extraordinary man.

And every day Sherlock would grab John

And he drag him all over London

And chase criminals and phantom pains away.

He would ask John's opinions

And make brilliant deductions

And steal tea

And they would laugh at crime scenes

And when they were tired, they'd go _home_

And John loved the extraordinary man...very much...

And, by God, John was happy.

* * *

But time went by,

And there was another man.

And there was a pool.

And then John was often alone.

* * *

"Sherlock, what are you doing out of bed?" John asked, rushing over to where Sherlock was pacing in front of the windows. He pushed the other man on to the sofa, and Sherlock willing sprawled there, but his fingers kept twitching and dancing all over the place as to make up for the lack of pacing.

John pulled Sherlock's shirt up and was relieved when he saw no blood on the bandages across his torso and chest.

"What about you needing to stay immobile or risk tearing all your stitches out didn't you understand?" John asked mildly.

"I understood perfectly. However, Mycroft was over and movement essential at the time," Sherlock explained, shooing John's hands away from his bandages.

"And what has he done to upset you now?" John asked, smiling slightly at Sherlock's petulant expression at the mention of his brother.

"He took my mobile and laptop, and then informed me he had unburdened me of my savings and my monthly allowance," Sherlock snarled, and jumped to his feet to start pacing again.

"How could he take your money? That's crooked, you earned it-"

"Wrong," Sherlock cut in grudgingly.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "The money I had was from a trust, administered by Mycroft. He has full control of it. This is his form of punishment for going after Moriarty. He wants me to leave the investigation to him, now. By taking my essential tools of communication and the means to obtain new ones, he's forcing me to talk cases from private clients in order to earn money. Occupied with that, I wouldn't have time to pursue Moriarty.

"To further his threat, he has stopped all future income, so I will need to take on several cases just to afford my part of the rent."

John frowned, and stared at the carpet. "So it is a punishment for both of us. You, for going to the pool, and me, for not stopping you. He'd see us kicked out of our home."

"I've often said he lacks human empathy."

John thought that perhaps it was a result of too much love rather than a lack of it.

"John," Sherlock pleaded, pulling at his hair and looking troubled. "I cannot let Moriarty go. I need to go after him, I'm the only one that has ever gotten close to ruining him, Mycroft will not be able to do it through governmental bureaucracy, I-"

John stood quickly and trapped Sherlock's hands in his, forcing them to release the strands of hair he had been abusing.

"I do not have the money to give to get a new mobile and computer," John explained, still holding his hands and looking determined. "He did not, however, take my mobile nor my laptop."

Sherlock stood still, a smile forming on his face slowly.

"I can't promise that I'll be able to cover all of the rent, but I can take on more shifts and the clinic, that way you'll only have to take on a few paying cases. Sherlock, I know you need to get Moriarty. And I'll help. Just tell me what you need."

Sherlock was outright grinning, and finally walked back to the sofa and sat down.

"Bring me everything, we have work to do," Sherlock declared.

John did so, and they spent the rest of day doing research. John even got Sherlock to eat dinner, and agree to go back to his room to try and sleep.

When John climbed into his own bed, he did so with a light heart. It had been three weeks since Sherlock had smiled, but he had done it several times that day.

John was happy again.

* * *

John returned from work to find clothes and books had been thrown all over the sitting room, while some were still sailing through the air, sometimes landing in abandoned heaps and others landing in sleek and expensive luggage.

In the last two months he had come home from long days of work to find Sherlock shut in his room, or typing furiously on both the mobile and the laptop simultaneously, or inexplicably gone (this worried John the most, since sharing a mobile meant Sherlock was unable to send texts to him, and he was horrible at writing out notes).

This, however, was the first time he had come home to flying objects.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John asked, after dodging a heavy medical dictionary that flew past his ear.

Sherlock turned from the bookshelf, but continued flinging books around. "I'm packing."

"Very poorly, might I add to that. Why are you packing?"

He had not seen Sherlock in three days, and that time had obviously been harrowing for Sherlock, as he looked crazed: hair standing on end, dark circles under his eyes, jittery limbs.

"I'm taking to the continent. I've found a trail that will lead me straight to Moriarty, I just have to unravel it the proper way. Which requires some international travel."

John balled his fists in his jacket pockets. "How long?"

Sherlock's face took on a desperate look, and he shrugged. "Months. More than a year is not a unreasonable estimate." His eyes were darting around the room, taking it in and cataloging every part to memory. He looked so thin and lost, and John realized that despite all of his claims of being a sociopath, that Sherlock did not fair well in isolation.

"When do we leave?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "I did not say you were coming."

"Yet I am."

"John-"

"Look, I know that I my mind isn't half as incredible as yours, but I promise I won't hold you back. I don't have a lot to give, but I am a crack shot and God knows you'll need a doctor at some point."

"We wouldn't be returning. Your job, your family and friends, any...emotional attachments would be left behind. I doubt Mrs. Hudson will leave the flat as a shrine to us, she'd find new tenants. You could never come back here. Stop being ridiculous."

"I don't have a lot to pack, give me five minutes," John stated firmly, heading for the stairs. Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, but started placing the books gently into his bags.

John never considered it a sacrifice to leave London to follow Sherlock into danger. 221B Baker Street was just a flat, but Sherlock, he was _home_.

When he was with Sherlock, John was always happy.

* * *

John had just returned from securing a tray of food to eat in their room from the inn keeper to find Sherlock crawling the walls and smoking up a storm.

"Christ!" John exclaimed, setting the tray on a side table and throwing the window open. It was a brisk night, but an extra jumper would be better than asphyxiation. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, he kept muttering to himself and twisting into impossible positions in his chair.

John pulled on his coat and rubbed his hands together. "Where are we again? I've lost track again, I'm afraid."

"Meiringen," Sherlock murmured distractedly. "Their claim to be the birthplace of meringue is unlikely, though its exact birth place cannot be determined concretely, so it is not implausible."

"That's...okay, right. Are you hungry?" John asked hopefully. "Looks like a nice stew."

"Food!" Sherlock cried, look furious. "Eating is boring! Sleeping is boring! Smoking is boring!"

He hurled the end of the cigarette on the floor in distaste, and John rushed to crush it underfoot before it caught the rug on fire.

"Existing is boring," Sherlock finished, his face full of pain.

John quickly crossed the room and fell to his knees in front of the chair, laying a comforting hand on Sherlock's ankle. "What is it, that bothering you? You've been slowly declining for days."

Sherlock covered his face with a shaking hand. "My mind, its too _full_! Nothing is clearing it, and I need to be thinking clearly. We're so close!"

Sherlock had unfolded himself, and was sitting properly again, but his eyes were frantic and darting.

John kissed him.

Sherlock pulled back, inhaling sharply.

"What-"

"Whatever you need," John interrupted. "To clear your mind. Anything, Sherlock. You've been using my money for cigarettes, and my laptop for research and my gun for defense. I just wanted to let you know, that my body is yours. If you need it."

Sherlock stared at him, but John had no idea how to classify the look. Then it didn't matter, as Sherlock was bearing him back on the bed, his teeth scraping (wonderfully) against John's lip.

The next morning, John opened his eyes to sunlight and Sherlock, who was sitting dressed at the table, eating breakfast. His eyes were glued to the laptop, but the restless energy from the previous day was gone. John smiled, and stretched languidly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped over to him, and then quickly back to the screen.

"Last night isn't to be taken personally," Sherlock stated flatly, not looking back to John. "My body can give my mind temporary relief, but it's still just transport. It should not need to happen again."

John could have answered in many ways. If he was too emotional, Sherlock would scoff and withdraw from him. If he faked too much indifference, Sherlock would bristle and not believe a word of it. John settled on an "Of course," stated mildly while he started searching for his trousers.

Sherlock nodded and continued to work, looking at peace.

So John was happy...

But not really.

* * *

The next day, after yelling fruitlessly into empty air, John stumbles upon his phone on the trail leading to the top of the falls.

There is a text message that was started, but not sent.

"It was the only way to win," Sherlock's last words state.

There's no 'sorry' or last minute declarations. Its the mobile more than the message that convinces him that Sherlock is truly gone. Sherlock giving John his phone back willingly is a harbinger of bad news.

John realizes that he is crying, but he can't stop the tears.

Moriarty had promised to burn Sherlock's heart out. And maybe Sherlock didn't have a heart of his own. But he had John's, even if he hadn't known it.

The game was over, but Moriarty still won.

* * *

Sherlock reappeared on a Tuesday afternoon a little over three years later. He had quickly gathered everyone necessary to catch Moran once and for all. John considered it a lucky boon in an otherwise miserable existence that he was not left alone with Sherlock for the next week.

Lestrade was forcing a struggling Moran into the back of a car when shaking fingers grazed the back of of John's hand.

John ignored it and hailed the next cab he saw.

That night, John went to answer a knock on his front door, and already knew who it was. He opened the door to Sherlock.

He looked much the same, which hadn't done much to convince John he wasn't a hallucination at the beginning. But he looked closer now, and saw stress creases around his eyes and several new scars. John sighed.

"Why did you come here?"

"For you," Sherlock answered, looking uncomfortably nervous.

"I'm sorry for you to have wasted your time, in that case. I have nothing for you," John stated flatly. "I have no money-"

"I have no need for your money. I do seem to have enough for two, though," Sherlock cut in.

"I can't shoot as well as I used to, my hand tremors came back. I can't run all over London, leaping from roof tops."

"I'm too old and tired to do that anymore," Sherlock replied.

"I am sorry," John sighed. "I wish that I could give you something...but I have nothing left. Just go home, Sherlock."

He started to close the door, but Sherlock's foot got in the way.

"I have no home...without you. I don't need very much now, John. Just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired." Sherlock admitted.

John opened the door slowly, and moved aside for Sherlock to walk by. Sherlock, however, crowded him against the door frame. John's was breathing frantically.

"You were wrong, just now," Sherlock whispered, "You have been in possession of the only consulting detective's heart for some four years. It's not a particularly fine one, not something to be proud of, to be sure. But, I do not want it back, if you don't mind?"

John looked away, and took a shaky breath. Then he pressed his lips fiercely to Sherlock's.

"You are quite a giving man," he whispered, pulling Sherlock as close as possible by the lapels of his coat.

"And you are quite extraordinary," Sherlock replied, lowering his mouth to John's again.

* * *

John finally got around to asking Sherlock to stay with him, forever.

And Sherlock did.

And John was happy...


End file.
